


By The Numbers

by Katzedecimal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, BAMF Molly, Espionage, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, mentions of Esperanto, numbers stations, shortwave radio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 06:49:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John revives an old hobby, he stumbles into a series of events that may just lead him to one more miracle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FroggyBangBang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FroggyBangBang/gifts).



It was a bright and sunny day and John Watson wanted no part in it. He trudged down the street, away from his therapist's office, away from her stupid advice. 

He really didn't know why he was paying her. She hadn't done him any good and it was her stupid advice that had created this whole mess in the first place. Her and her stupid blogging advice. She hadn't done John any good, Sherlock had done him more good than Ella and her stupid advice. He'd followed her stupid advice and his blog had gotten Sherlock killed. 

No one would ever make him believe that Sherlock hadn't been pushed off that rooftop.

Lestrade thought so too and he'd been making headway. Some of the cold cases Sherlock had solved, he would have had to have been a toddler to have set them up. Heck, for some of them, he would still have been a fetus in the womb! For three of them, he'd have been a twinkle in his teenage daddy's eye. And for one, his **daddy** would have been a fetus in the womb. Put like that, it was harder for the Yard to accept that Sherlock had been a fake. 

He trudged back to 221 Baker Street, where he nearly tripped over some boxes in the hall. He looked around, puzzled, when Mrs. Hudson emerged from her flat. "Oh hello, dear, just kick them aside, it won't bother them," she told him airily.

"Spot of clean-up, Mrs. H?"

"Just clearing out some more of Henry's things," she said distastefully. 

John grinned, "Would you like a hand with that? Job'll go quicker." He followed her back into the A flat and got to work, helping her to clear out a closet. "Is that an old shortwave radio?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled, "Yes, Henry liked to listen to it. Of course, then I learned what he'd been listening **for.** "

"Oh," John sounded disappointed, even to himself.

"Did you want it, dear?"

"Well, I kind of.. we used shortwave in the army.. but if it bothers you..."

"Of course you can, dear, it's not the radio's fault!" Mrs. Hudson chuckled.

"But if it reminds you of him..."

She patted his hand, "Sweetheart, everything reminds me of him. _You_ know that."

John looked away and nodded, "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

* * * *

A shortwave radio. John grinned - he hadn't seen one of these since the army. They were popular among enthusiasts before the Internet made ham radio easier to do. Now their use was dying off among the civilian population, leaving the short waves only to their original users and their diehard enthusiasts. 

John was one of both. 

He set to work, scrolling the dial slowly as he searched the short waves for the familiar signals. The Pip. The Buzzer. The Squeaky Wheel. Atencion. The Russian Man. The Egyptian Lady. 

Numbers stations.

"No one" knew _exactly_ what they were for but John was part of "no one." Their purposes had been speculated about by the general population for decades, but pretty much confirmed in the early 2000s during the case of the United States of America vs. the "Cuban Five." 

He knew that the Lincolnshire Poacher had ceased broadcasting and he felt sad about that; it was like an old friend. It was one of Britain's own numbers stations, long suspected of being run by the MI6. John grinned to himself, wondering if Mycroft had ever used it. He scrolled, catching numbers chanted in what sounded like Cantonese, and paused to note the time and megaHertz frequency. When the broadcast finished, he scrolled some more, coming across the familiar blatts of the Buzzer. He grinned at its familiarity. 

He spent the rest of the day and into the evening just surfing the shortwave channels. Sometimes catching numbers stations, sometimes catching ham radio or propaganda stations, sometimes the familiar military frequencies, greeting them like old friends. 

He was listening to another numbers station when he realised something odd about it. _"..awk.. awk.. now. Oonoo... queen..queen.. quar...tree..."_ the male voice intoned.

John sat up, blinking. _That was Esperanto!_ he thought, _Ok, ok, nau, unu, kvin, kvin, kvar, tri - 8 8 9, 1 5 5 4 3..._ He listened some more. _My God, I've found an Esperanto numbers station!_ He wrote down the time, date and frequency then quickly started writing down the numbers. _An Esperanto numbers station! How bizarre can you get!_

_...What's even more bizarre is that bloke sounds kind of like Mycroft._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Molly is a Gleek. She turned Moriarty into a Gleek.   
> And then dumped his arse.   
> Which says a lot about Molly, if you read between the lines.

The net has everything, John knew, and that included sites for numbers station enthusiasts. John shook his head, amused and bemused. He searched around but found nothing about numbers stations broadcasting in Esperanto. Maybe it was a new station? John knew about past incidents where Esperanto had been used in coordinating activities, including a major prison break-out during the Spanish Civl War, seventy-five years ago. It made sense - Esperanto itself was more of a hobbyist's thing nowadays, so a message coded in it stood even less of a chance of being cracked. 

So this station was probably pretty important. 

Which was kind of neat, when you thought about it. 

But what he really could not get over was how much the voices sounded like people he knew. It was mostly two male voices who used the station though occasionally there was a female voice. The female voice nagged him as familiar but one of the male voices sounded an awful lot like Mycroft Holmes (which wasn't all **that** far-fetched, given John knew that Mycroft was heavily involved in the Secret Intelligence Service.)

But on occasion, there was a second male voice, one that sounded distressingly like Mycroft's little brother. John's heart ached every time he heard that voice and he nearly stopped listening to the station. But he didn't and eventually he decided that even a Sherlock-soundalike was better than no Sherlock at all. He could pretend. He could imagine that somehow, Sherlock had survived and was out in the world somewhere, busting criminals. 

Without John. 

He shook himself and went to make a cup of tea, then went to the store after using the last of the milk. He was lost in thought and not really watching where he was going when a young woman came rushing out of a flat and he ran smack into her. "Oh God, I'm terribly sorry! I'm so sorry, are you hurt?"

"No, no, I'm fine.."

"Molly!" he realised, feeling even more chagrined. The impact had knocked her purse out of her hands and scattered the contents. "I'm so terribly sorry, I wasn't paying attention. Here, let me help you with that." He bent down and started collecting all the little items that had scattered about - lipstick, pens, hand cream, "Oh, what's this? Is it ever cute!" He held up a Hello Kitty USB stick marked 'OTP.'

And startled when she snatched it out of his hand, "It's.. It's nothing, it's.. nothing."

"'OTP?' Hang on, I know that, that sounds familiar..."

Molly blushed brightly, "It... It's my fanfic. It means 'One True Pairing.'"

" **Right!** " John roared with laughter, "That's what people used to call Sherlock and I, they said we were OTP. You write **fanfic?** Oh, **please** tell me you don't write fanfic about me and Sherlock!"

She blushed even more brightly, "No!! No, I'd never! Not about real people!"

"Oh that's good. Some of the things people wrote, well Sherlock never seemed to mind much but it sure bothered me. So what do you write about, then? Wait, what's that show you like, the one in the school.. _Glee_? Do you write about _Glee_?"

"I.. um.. yes," she admitted. 

"That's great!," John said, "Do you post your work on AO3?"

"How do you know about AO3?"

"I did say some of the fanfic about Sherlock and I bothers me."

"Um.. right." Hastily she repacked her purse then pointedly checked her watch, "Um, I've got to go, I'm already late for my shift.."

"Right, right, sorry to have kept you," John said, "Sorry to have kept you. And I think it's great that you're writing."

He went home and spent the rest of the day surfing the shortwave channels, listening to various stations. It was towards midnight when he tuned to the Esperanto station's frequency and heard the violin strains of Vivaldi's _Spring_ movement that opened each broadcast. It was the female voice this time, the one that was naggingly familiar but he just couldn't place it. 

Then suddenly, he could. _**Molly!**_ he realised, _She sounds just like Molly!_ Now that was uncanny: The male voice that sounded like Mycroft and a female voice that sounded like Molly Hooper, what were the odds of... 

_Actually, it **is** possible,_ John realised. He was certain Mycroft **was** in the MI6 and he'd met Molly once before. Molly the sweet, shy and stammering. Mousy little Molly, who was even more clever than she was shy. Molly the quiet, Molly the listener who faded into the background. And he realised that 'OTP' didn't just stand for 'one true pairing.'

It also stood for 'one-time pad.'


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John cracks the code.

He wasn't sure what made him think of it, let alone what made him do it. For a couple of days this week, he'd taken his laptop down to Barts, using the excuse of copying Sherlock's notes from the USB sticks and databases he'd kept there. What he was really after was in Molly's purse; now he had to figure out how to get it and keep it long enough to copy its contents. 

His opportunity came when Molly told him she had a lunch date and nipped off to the ladies', leaving her purse on her desk. He quickly dipped his fingers in and neatly picked the Hello Kitty stick, slipping it into his pocket. She returned and grabbed her purse and he wished her luck on her date. As soon as she was gone, he plugged the stick into his laptop and set to work. 

It was Mycroft, alright -- The password system was the same. Sherlock had told John the algorithm and it had taken him less than a minute to crack the password and start copying the contents of the stick. He'd always wondered **why** Sherlock would give John such sensitive information but he was grateful for it now. He put the stick back into his pocket and when Molly returned, slipped it back into her purse when she went to the ladies' room again. He finished copying Sherlock's data and gathered up his laptop to leave. 

So, Mycroft appeared to have recruited Molly and was sending her instructions by a numbers station broadcast in Esperanto. _Curiouser and curiouser,_ John thought. Molly was a spy! So who was she spying on in a morgue at Barts? Her lunch date? Her lunch date! Oooh, was Molly a honeypot? This was getting better and better! John decided he'd better keep a discreet eye on her, if she was a honey pot, things could get heated for her... He was brought up short by a sudden realisation.

Molly was a mortician. She processed bodies. She signed death certificates. She was a mousy, timid little thing with a puppy crush on Sherlock. No one would ever suspect her if she forged a death certificate. 

_That second voice......_

John quickened his pace for home. Now he **had** to crack that code!

* * * *

John had to admire it. The software was a stand-alone, installed on the USB stick, that ran regardless of operating system. He knew of the Holmes boys' preferences for Linux and BSD, so this was not much of a surprise. It also meant that nothing need be installed onto John's laptop, should it ever be stolen. He'd used similar systems in the army and still admired their elegance. 

It was definitely a one-time pad, the encryption key that allowed an agent to decode a message. John pulled out the Esperanto numbers he'd written down and fed them into the software. What came out was.... 

Gibberish. 

It wasn't even Esperanto. It certainly wasn't English. It was just more numbers, by the look of it. He tried running those numbers back into the software but got nowhere. 

Fuck.

Nevertheless, he converted all of the numbers he'd written down, in the hopes that one of them would yield some clue. One of them did. The word "cxapitro" jumped out at him. _'Cxapitro', that's the Esperanto word meaning 'chapter,'_ John thought, _Like the chapter of a book? Maybe the rest of the cypher is in a book?_

_....Or in a fanfic._

John stared. He knew how the A03 worked and he didn't know what Molly's username might be. But... people tended to choose usernames that reflected a facet of their personalities, right? Unless they chose something that was directly related to their fandom like 'Gleekgirl' or something... _Oh god, if she's chosen something like that, I'll never find her,_ John despaired, _I can only pray she chose something like 'TobysMum' or something._

He was close: It was 'Toby's_Mum.' His jaw dropped open for a moment then he shook himself. She'd been a member for a while, certainly well before Sherlock's death, and she'd posted quite a lot of _Glee_ fic (as well as some _My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic_ , oh dear god he was never going to be able to look her in the eye ever again...) 

Evidently this was a long established hobby of hers. She was a well-appreciated author too, to judge by the number of kudos, comments and bookmarks her works had achieved. He started looking for works written after Sherlock died and found quite a few. He found a fairly recent chaptered work and figured that would be a good place to start. Now if only he had any idea of **how** to start...

He looked back at his notes and started with, well, 'Cxapitro Ses,' Chapter Six. There were no numbers in the fic that he could find. He sat back and frowned at the screen, then looked back at the number sequence the software had generated. They were in a different sequence from the numbers transmitted over the shortwave, but not one that he recognised. Not a Fibonacci sequence or a decimal sequence, and what did it have to do with the fanfic? He blew out a frustrated sigh and went to make a cup of tea. 

He sat down with the tea and took a sip, his eyes skimming over the fanfic. As they skimmed, they tripped over certain words. ... _bay... safe... normal... panther... yellow... suspect... watcher... number... one.. seeing.. therapist..._

He sat up, blinking, and stared at the screen. _'Number one seeing therapist'?!_ He grabbed the sheet of numbers and stared: They corresponded to the words in the fanfic! They told the reader what words to read in what order! Quickly he hooked the USB printer up to the laptop and printed out the fanfic. 

_"Iran lead fubar, e &e. Returning to safehouse."_

_"Status."_

_"Medical here aren't number one. More e &e, lost him."_

_"New leads to Toronto, possible wet job. Contact Huntington, opportunity."_

_"Toronto leads live, tracking ill. Rumours action on bay. Status all."_

_"Bay safe, normal, code blue but coping. Panther code yellow, suspect watcher. Number one seeing therapist again, not coping well."_

_"Increased security for panther, bay, number one."_

_"Toronto action complete, ill terminated. Status number one, bay."_

_"Number one status blue, continuing observation. Bay status green, baking biscuits for local charities."_

_"Leads take VP to Tibet, following."_

_"Sent three agents to assist."_

_"Lead to Japan."_

_"Stick missing from bag during lunch, back in its pocket after return. Number one only person in lab. Had laptop."_

_"Number one smarter than he looks."_

_"Would he even recognise?"_

_"Army captain. High probability."_

_"Risk to operation?"_

_"No. Risk to python chin, yes."_

John was shaking with emotion but he still had to grin. 

**Sherlock!** That had to be Sherlock! The second voice **was** Sherlock! Sherlock was alive! 

Sherlock was alive! And busting criminals and... and doing wetwork...

Without John.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hazards of using fanfic as a secret code medium.

John spent his days glued to the shortwave radio, working out the broadcasting schedule of the Esperanto station. He captured all of its messages and read Molly's _Glee_ fanfic to translate them. Sherlock was alive and appeared to be part of a massive operation, chasing criminals around the world, and he'd left John behind. 

_"Action complete, VP terminated. Status number one."_

_"Number one status dark blue. Mood crashed, worse than before. Worrying."_

_"Action D?"_

_"Uncertain."_

_"Toby, increase watch on number one."_

_"Bay has bake sale coming up, will volunteer to help."_

Well, it was nice to know they were worried about him. So 'Bay' was Mrs. Hudson, then. Hudson's Bay, of course. He still didn't know who 'Panther' referred to but he was obviously Number One. Why 'Number One?' Because he'd been Sherlock's right-hand man?

John flipped through his notes. Sherlock had left him behind but he sure asked about him a lot. Just about every communication from him ended with a request for John's status. "Code blue" apparently referred to mood, looking at the contexts. Depression levels, grief levels? They were worried about how well he and Mrs. Hudson were coping with Sherlock's... loss. Did all of the colour codes refer to moods? Mrs. Hudson was 'code green' at one point and she did seem cheerier, almost her normal self, while she was doing the charity baking. So what was 'code yellow' then? - "Panther" had been put at 'code yellow' but followed with 'suspect watcher.' John shook his head and sighed. 

He'd debated again and again whether or not to send his own coded message but once again decided against it. For whatever reason, Sherlock didn't want him involved in what he was doing. So, he continued to sit at home, gathering the coded messages and keeping track of all the worrying things that Sherlock was doing. 

He'd wanted his miracle and he'd gotten it, but that didn't mean his miracle wanted him. John sighed and checked the clock. Time for his appointment. He went and sat in Ella's office, staring out of Ella's window and not really talking much and listening to her stupid advice. Why was he paying to do this? He could stare out of his own window and not talk and get stupid advice off the Internet. But he stared and didn't talk and listened and paid. Then he went home and stopped at the Tesco to do a bit of shopping.

When he got back, his flat had been broken into. 

There were no signs of forced entry, no marks at all. When he opened the door, it appeared that nothing had changed but he knew instinctively that something had happened while he was out. He'd seen Sherlock do this, too - the way he'd pause at the door and just _know_ that John had done a search. Someone had searched the flat and John knew just what they were looking for. 

His gun was gone.

* * * *

_It must have been Mycroft,_ John thought, sitting in his chair and chewing thoughtfully on his thumbnail. _No signs of forced entry and I know Mycroft has a key. Even if he didn't, he can pick locks like nobody's business. He knew where to find the gun, hardly anything else was touched. I suppose they're worried about me but it's fucking annoying._

Which is how Sherlock had felt, surely.

He looked at the clock and grinned - almost broadcast time. He got up and set up his radio and his laptop then waited for Vivaldi's _Spring_ movement to herald a new set of numbers. John smiled when the first set was delivered in Sherlock's voice. 

After he'd collected all of the number sets, he ran them through the one-time pad software and noticed that they were pointing to a new fanfic so he opened AO3 and _Oh my God, not 'quivering'...!!! Oh God, please don't let there be a 'throbbing', please no, no 'throbbing', oh God there's a 'throbbing'..._

He had to look away. And break into hysterical laughter. Just the **thought** that Mycroft and Sherlock would have to _read_ this, just to understand their messages...!!! He could picture the looks on their faces all too clearly. _Oh my God, I wonder if one of them pissed off Molly? I can't think why else would she force them to read bad slashfic. She's a better writer than this, this **has** to be deliberate!_ John laughed until tears were running down his face.

_"Thailand action fubar, more e &e, lost him again."_

_"New lead on dynamo. Follow trail to Denver."_

'..he was a sexual dynamo and he knew it.' John was laughing again.

_"Returning to safehouse. Status number one."_

_"Number one action taken, decompressed."_

'As his male member decompressed,' oh god, that was supposed to mean that an action had been taken to prevent John from committing suicide but oh dear god, what a way to encode it...!

_"Action taken for Panther, watcher terminated. Status green."_

_"Bay possibly status yellow, mentioned she thinks someone's been stalking her. Request action."_

Someone stalking Mrs. Hudson? John's lips pressed into a thin line. Nothing for it, then -- It was time to compose a message of his own.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns how he's been helping Sherlock all along.

The strains of Vivaldi's _Spring_ movement filled the flat. John got his paper ready and tried to calm the thudding of his heart. Once he'd made sure that Mr. Hudson's radio could send shortwave broadcasts as well as receive them, he'd gone out to buy a microphone. He waited until the others had read off their number sets, then, before any of them could sign off, he cleared his throat and pressed the broadcast button. "Unu, kvin, ses, ses, nau..."

There was shocked silence over the shortwave. John smirked mirthlessly - the best part of all was that he'd managed to find nearly all of the words he needed in Molly's slashfic, and the ones he couldn't, he found in her _My Little Pony_ fic about cupcakes. _Take **that** , Mycroft!_

He signed off and made a cup of tea, then set about translating the messages. 

_"Whatever I said to annoy you, I apologise."_

_"If python ever talks to me like that again, it will go even worse."_

_"Have not laughed since number one, good job."_

Yes, good job Molly indeed. Somehow John was just not surprised that it had been Mycroft who'd ticked her off. The fact that she'd used 'python' as yet another phallic euphemism made tea go up John's nose.

_"Observation on Bay, code yellow, stalker confirmed, unknown if related to operations. Action in development."_

_"Number one no activity, status unchanged."_

_"Unable to find leads on more, request assistance."_

Ohhh that was a switch. Whatever 'more' meant, it must be **really** important to Sherlock for him to request assistance from Mycroft. 

...He really hadn't laughed since leaving John? 

_"French organisation confirmed collapsed, good work."_

_"Panther status green, in hospital after street altercation."_

So 'Panther' meant Lestrade. Why 'Panther,' though? And then, John's own message, shot out into the ether to shock its recipients like a bolt of lighting:

_"Can I have my gun back, please? If someone is stalking Bay, would be nice to be able to protect her."_ \-- not his best spy-ese but it would do.

He grinned because his mobile chimed, right on time.

(21:37 Mycroft Holmes) _Get in the car._

* * * *

It was a dark and stormy night, so he was expecting the umbrella and the abandoned warehouse. What he was not expecting was that the umbrella be pink and that the person waiting for him in the abandoned warehouse would be quaking like a leaf. 

_Or would that be 'quivering?'_ "Molly?" John said, "Oh that is **not** fair. He sent you out instead because he knows I won't chin you one, am I right?"

"Um.. yes," Molly stuttered, "John.. please..."

"Were you lot **ever** going to tell me?!"

"Please, John," Molly pleaded, "Yes.. Yes, we were going to tell you.. once it was safe..."

"'Safe?' 'Safe' for who? 'Safe' for what?" John was yelling now, unable to stop himself, "Like what he's doing now is 'safe?' I know what wetwork means, Molly!"

"Safe for you, John," Molly replied, "You and Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Lestrade. Jim had his men covering all three of you. You were all to be shot if Sherlock didn't die."

John wiped his hands down his face, digesting that. "I knew he'd been pushed," he said softly.

"It was terrible to have to do this to you. You weren't supposed to be there, you weren't supposed to have to watch..."

"You helped him fa--*"

"It's still not safe, not even here," Molly said then removed her hand from John's mouth, "We're not wholly sure that the stalker isn't watching you as well." She sighed, "I'm sorry, John, we all are. They thought it would only take a few weeks to take down Jim's people and his network. It wasn't supposed to take years."

"Will I ever see him again?" John sounded broken, even to himself.

And Molly sounded firm, "Yes. He's always planned to come home. He **wants** to come home, but.."

" **But what?** " John shouted, "He's out there, doing things, and I should be out there with him!"

"And then Jim's people would know he's alive and Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Lestrade would be killed right away, John please, it really isn't safe to talk about this..."

"Bone, diru al mi en Esperanto."

"......I... don't know enough Esperanto..." 

John blew out a frustrated sigh. "Fine. Fine, then... How can I help?"

"You've **been** helping, John. You've been grieving and.. and going to therapy and... that's what's convinced Jim's people that Sherlock actually died. That's what's allowed him to do all of this work. You've **been** helping him, John, and you've been keeping him safe and all the others, too." She laid a hesitant hand on his arm, "It wasn't supposed to go like that, John, and it wasn't supposed to take this long. It hurt him to have to do that to you and believe me, he misses you so much. Every time he contacts us, he asks about you."

John sighed and wiped his face again. "Noticed that," he nodded, "But... how is he?"

"Mycroft thinks he's relapsed and he's afraid to come home."

"Afraid?! Why would he be afraid? Because he relapsed? God, Molly...!"

"He's afraid he won't be welcome because of what he had to do."

John nodded again, "Fine. Fine. Yes, I... I can understand that. Fine. Fuck, of **course** he'll be welcome! ...christ how could he even think..."

"He loves you, John, and he misses you so much. Keeping you alive is his number one priority."

John looked away. _Number One._ "Don't change the station code... please..."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a suicide attack, then a miracle.

John lay on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. He was thinking, but sternly resisted the urge to tent his fingers. 

_"One more thing,"_ he'd asked before he left Molly, _"What does 'more' mean? It has to be pretty important."_ Molly had whispered her answer into his ear and the bottom dropped out of John's world. 

The colonel who had taught John how to shoot was now out to kill him. The man had made John into a crack shot like himself, then had him in his sights the entire time Sherlock was on the roof, ready to blow out his brains if Sherlock didn't die. 

The man he'd seen at Piccadilly Circus a couple of days ago. 

When he'd still thought Sherlock was dead.

The man he'd gone to coffee with, talked with about his life in the army, his life as Sherlock's flatmate and blogger, and how empty he'd felt ever since Sherlock's death. When his grief and his emptiness had felt so real and honest. 

Because they were. Because the best acting was not acting at all. John (and Mrs. Hudson and Detective Inspector Lestrade) was alive **now** because Colonel Moran had believed him, because he hadn't been acting.

He stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of his gun in the waistband of his trousers. 

He rolled off the couch and got up to switch off the telly but paused. It was playing the introduction to _The Pink Panther._ _The Pink Panther. Inspector Clouseau,_ he realised, _Oh for God's sake, who came up with that one?_ He chuckled out loud then switched off the telly. Time to set up his laptop and radio. He'd thought about what to say them combed through Molly's fics to figure out how to say it. He listened to Vivaldi's _Spring_ movement, then ran the numbers through the interpreter. 

_"Spoke with number one, status green."_

_"Moscow lead false trail."_

_"I want to learn more international language."_

_"Rumour more in London, seeking confirmation."_

John leaped to his keyboard, then hurriedly hit the broadcast button and picked up his microphone, "Du, du, ok, ok, nau, sep, unu..." - _"Confirmed, saw more in pick circus tube, had coffee with a few days ago. Still in London, on job, he said."_

There was silence as his numbers were translated, then rapidly roughening breath. Then Mycroft's voice, calmly dictating numbers. _"Found on camera, tracking. Suggest return to plan action."_

John cleared his throat and spoke the numbers he'd prepared. _"There's beer in the fridge for when you come home."_

There was a long pause. When Sherlock finally spoke, he struggled to keep the tremour out of his voice. _"Booked flight, arrive second hour and fourteen."_

_"Chinese when you arrive,"_ John transmitted. Then his phone chimed.

(22:47 Mycroft Holmes) _Get Bay._  
(22:47 Mycroft Holmes) _Get in the ambulance._

...just as he heard the sirens approaching.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson's voice quavered, "I just got a call from Molly. Is something wrong? Are you alright?"

John's mind blanked for a moment on how to reply. If he told her... _Wait, we've been stalked, watched... What if we've been bugged as well?_ Suddenly he remembered the holes in the wall, made by the gas repairman. Mrs. Hudson had complained about them for weeks though the gas company insisted they had sent no such repairman around. He felt the weight of his gun in his trousers and suddenly knew just what to say. "I called them. Mrs. H, I need you to come with me. I'm... I'm having a suicide attack right now and I... I need your help."

She gasped then cupped his cheek, "Oh John! Oh sweetheart, I knew you were having a rough time of it. Of course I won't leave you alone."

They climbed up into the ambulance and John smiled when he saw the familiar figure bent over her Blackberry. "It says here I'm to take you to central command then I'm to pick up dim sum." She raised a puzzled face and John grinned. "A suicide attack, Doctor? That's very impressive."

"Thanks, I wasn't sure if we were bugged."

"You were."

"...John?"

John took Mrs. Hudson's hands and smiled at her, "Sorry, Mrs. H, but we've been ordered to leave Baker Street for a little while."

"...w...Where are we going? Does it have something to do with Sherlock?"

"Yes. Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson, we're going someplace safe."

"It doesn't sound safe. It sounds like it could be dangerous."

John looked at her. The glint in her eyes wasn't fear and he grinned, "Could be very dangerous."

The ambulance whined to a stop at St. Bartholomew's Hospital but they made no move to disembark. Instead, the door was opened and a gurney was loaded on board, covered by a sheet. The gurney's attendant was helped on board. "Hello, Molly!"

"Hi, John! Hello, Mrs. Hudson, sorry to drag you into this."

"Quite alright, dear."

The ambulance drove off again, this time without sirens and at a more leisurely pace. Their destination was stately but John had no patience for rubbernecking, he just wanted to get on with it. "'Evening, Mycroft."

"Doctor Watson, a pleasure to see you again. Doctor Hooper. Mrs. Hudson, so sorry to call you out of retirement. I do hope we can count on your co-operation."

"What?" John blinked. _Retirement?_

"Just this once, young man," Mrs. Hudson said acerbically, "Don't think you can make a habit of it. I'm only doing this for Sherlock's sake." 

John blinked again, "What?"

"Yes, John, there's quite a lot you don't know about Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft chuckled, "Now then, shall we get to business? We have a little time before the final member of our team arrives, and quite a bit to plan."

"I didn't have a cadaver with the characteristics you needed but I found a medical mannequin of the right height and body shape," Molly said apologetically. 

"Then we shall acquire suitable clothing and hairpieces and make do with what we have," Mycroft nodded at his assistant, who bent her head over her Blackberry to peck out the orders. 

"Did I bring this on?" John asked very quietly, "With my... hobby?"

Mycroft turned to look at him. He looked grudgingly impressed. "Not at all, John. In fact, your timing has been impeccable. Moriarty's people did have your flat bugged but we deemed it safer to permit them to remain operational, the better to convince them both of Sherlock's death and of our unawareness of the depth of Moriarty's network. While your discovery of our station **could** have proved problematic, you covered yourself quite nicely by listening to other stations as well and conversing with other shortwave enthusiasts, successfully convincing Moriarty's agents that you were simply indulging in a nostalgic hobby. We worried that you might attempt to communicate right away but, and quite admirably I might add, you refrained." 

Mycroft sighed and pushed his fingers through his hair. "You see, John, the reason this has taken so long is that Colonel Moran has consistently been several steps ahead of us. Several months ago, he had begun to suspect that Sherlock might be alive after all. By the time we received hints that he might be heading to London, he was already here. You could not have chosen a better time to speak, John. Colonel Moran and his informants have been observed staking out a vacant flat directly across from 221b. We're now formulating a plan to smoke him out."

"Good," John nodded. This he could sink his teeth into. He could push aside his resentment and his grief and click into his army captain mode. He was needed here. The next while flew by while he immersed himself in planning the action.

Until a noise made him look up. Thinner than ever, his hair cropped short and dyed ginger, looking wasted and exhausted, his miracle walked into the room.


End file.
